


Tastes Like Ashes

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: Secret Six
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Floyd and Blake finally have a much-needed conversation. It doesn't go the way Blake was hoping it would go.</p><p>Rated entirely for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tastes Like Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [На вкус как пепел](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023128) by [fierce_cripple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierce_cripple/pseuds/fierce_cripple), [WTFDeadRobin2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTFDeadRobin2017/pseuds/WTFDeadRobin2017)



> ...I love this pairing. I ship it _so_ hard.
> 
> But...this is me being depressingly realistic.

Side by side in the kitchen they sit, this kitchen that feels homelike even though it's in the fucking House of Secrets, and there's half a bottle of whiskey between them. It's weird to see Blake drinking, Floyd thinks—the guy's usually so big on _clean living,_ inasmuch as you can live clean when you spend most of your time teetering on the bloody edge that separates good and evil. But the guy's had a bad day, dumped by some chick (or dude, maybe), and Floyd's offering the kind of comfort he knows best. Which is pretty much liquor and a semi-supportive ear to talk into.

Blake's been talking in a monotone for almost an hour now, Floyd half-listening and making the appropriate sympathetic noises. It takes a moment for him to realize when the talking stops, and when he _does_ twig on he looks over, feeling guilty, and says, “Well, y'know, I'm always here. If you need something. Within reason, of course, I ain't shooting anyone for free.”

The kiss comes as a complete surprise.

Blake's lips are soft, which he wouldn't have expected from the guy, and he's so thrown that he reacts the way he'd react to any kiss he _was_ expecting, which is to say he opens his mouth a little. Blake tastes like whiskey and blood, his hands are fisted in the collar of Floyd's shirt, and for a second it's nice and Floyd is _almost_ drunk enough to go with it.

But he's not _quite_ that drunk, not really, and Blake's his friend. So when he can talk, when he's got his mouth to himself again, he says, “Whoa there.”

Blake stares at him for a moment, unsmiling, expression unrepentant, and then says, “Sorry.”

“Look, I...” He reaches up and very gently disentangles Blake's hands from his shirt. Not like he could _hurt_ him, Blake's _way_ stronger than he'll ever be, but...well, no. He could hurt him. He could hurt him a _lot_ right now. And Floyd doesn't want that. “Didn't know you felt that way.”

“I feel a lot of ways.” Blake's hands linger in his for a moment, and then he turns away and looks back down into the depths of his tumbler, the ice cubes melting among the remnants of his...fourth glass of Johnny Walker? Fifth? “Guess I hoped...”

This time it's Floyd who says, “Sorry.” Which is shitty, it's not the word he wants, but he doesn't _know_ the word he wants, he's not sure there _is_ one. Sorry. The fuck does that mean? Couple of sorry fuckers right here. That's what's sorry.

Fuck.

“You taste like ashes.”

“Jeannie's always tellin' me that.”

“You shouldn't smoke so much, you know. Bad for you.”

“Yeah, well, what's a guy with a death wish to do.”

“Try living, maybe.”

Floyd doesn't really know what to say to that, so he just fills up both glasses again. And for a while they just drink, and don't look at each other. At one point Scandal comes in, and she looks like she wants to say hi, but then she actually _sees_ them, and so instead of talking she just makes herself the sandwich that was probably all she'd wanted in the first place and heads out again.

Their glasses run out at the same time, and they both reach for the bottle and their hands bump. Floyd doesn't flinch because that'd be cruel, and he's _not_ like that, not really. It's _Blake_ who flinches, his hand stuttering toward Floyd, the callused tips of his fingers brushing over Floyd's wrist for a moment in a movement that Floyd recognizes from so many hookups and one-night stands. It's flirting, or it would be if Blake went through with it, but he doesn't. He pulls away.

“Blake...” And he'd better get it out of the way now, before he does anything to fuck it up. Granted, _this_ might fuck it up, might fuck up _everything,_ but it has to be said. “It can't happen.”

Blake's shoulders hunch up, just a little bit. He looks miserable, but _Blake_ miserable, which means that Floyd can only tell because he knows the guy so well. Which is fucking ironic, right? Or something, it's definitely something. “I know.”

“Not that I don't think you're—”

“Don't say it.”

Floyd doesn't really want to say it anyway.

In the morning, maybe they'll act like they never had this conversation, like Blake never kissed him, and they'll pretend that everything's all right.

Hopefully it'll be true eventually.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Try Living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/815029) by [DangerousCommieSubversive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive)




End file.
